summary: you’re asking yourself why he keeps coming back, he’s asking himself why you keep letting him in. it’s a treacherous slope but neither of you can turn back now.
pairing: outlaw!bucky barnes x female reader
warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI. smut (unprotected sex: p in v, loss of virginity, oral: f receiving, fingering, dry humping), swearing, fluff, angst, mention of: alcohol, blood, injuries, guns, death, murder, violence, and non-con (it’s alluded to in regards to an unnamed character).
length: 16.5k
a/n: written for my 3k celebration, the prompt is bolded. i know little of the old west but this is fiction so. title inspired by this song and one part of this fic is inspired by a scene in butch cassidy & the sundance kid 🧡
You never could quite handle the sight of blood, nor could you ever hide your instinctual response to it.
Your father used to terrorise you with the cuts he’d sometimes earn from a hard day’s work, always finding your reactions humorous.
Each time he would smile and say, “You’ll get used to it one day, kid.”
That day didn’t come while he was alive and it hadn’t come now.
Opening your front door to the man you’d spied knocking on it from the kitchen window, you almost shut it again.
The stranger towers above you, his frame taking up the entire doorway, but your focus is drawn down to where his hands - covered in dirt and blood, press above his left hip.
“Ma’am,” He greets in a gruff tone. “I hate to bother you, but I find myself in need of some assistance…” The man nods to his injury, as if it had gone unnoticed by you.
It takes a moment for you to respond and when you do it’s with a jerky bob of your head as you step out of the doorway.
One blood stained hand raises to tip his hat at you as he enters.
Your eyes follow him as he wanders into the kitchen to his left, a slight sway in his steps.
How long has he been bleeding out?
Shutting the front door, you finally find your voice. “What do you need?”
Grunting as he lowers himself into a chair at your small, rectangular table, he answers “Rag, needle, thread, and alcohol - whiskey preferably.”
Removing his hat, he places it on the tabletop.
Okay, he’s done this before.
Focusing on the task he’s provided, you move around the kitchen and sitting room across from it, gathering each item.
The stranger is in luck. Your father had loved whiskey and there’s still plenty of bottles stashed away.
When you come to stand in front of him with everything in hand, you find that he’s lifted his shirt, providing an unobstructed view of his injury.
There’s so much…
“Bullet just grazed me.” The man observes quietly, to himself. “Still made one hell of a mess though.” He grumbles, finally lifting his head.
Blood. There’s so much blood and the skin has -
A deep, rough laugh pulls you from your spiralling, making you swallow thickly.
“It’s alright, darlin’.” There’s a lighter edge to his tone. “Just put the stuff on the table, I’ve got it.”
You do as he directs but remain where you are.
The man opens the bottle of whiskey first and takes three healthy swigs before pouring the liquid over his wound, hissing.
Quickly averting your gaze with a wince, you focus on his face instead.
What skin you can see is dirty, like his clothes. It’s clearly been some time since he last bathed or even tidied his appearance. His hair is long and tangled. You think it’s naturally a dark brown but it’s hard to be certain. A thick, wild beard hides most of his mouth and half his face, while a sharp nose -
Oh god.
You’ve seen the wanted posters hanging around town. Heard the stories that accompanied them.
Bucky Barnes.
The famed outlaw, responsible for some of the decade’s most daring robberies and revered as the fastest gunslinger in the west, is sitting in your kitchen. Tending a gunshot wound.
For the briefest moment you wonder who it was that shot him and what their fate had been.
Then you realise that’s something you really don’t want to know.
“Ma always said I could never be a tailor.” The man - Bucky mutters, eyeing his truthfully pitiful stitching. “But it’ll do.”
Placing the blood soaked rag on the table, along with the needle and leftover thread, Bucky’s eyes meet yours as he swallows another mouthful of whiskey.
You feel the shift in the air as he sets the bottle back down.
Somehow he knows.
“I’m not lookin’ for any trouble, ma’am.”
“Says the man famous for trouble.” You can’t help but retort.
You’re seriously going to smart mouth him?
To your shock Bucky merely grins, his teeth surprisingly white and clean. “That’s fair, but a pretty girl’s house isn’t exactly where I make my trouble.” Morphing his grin into a smirk, he amends “Unless I’m asked.”
Your skin heats at the insinuation.
“I won’t be asking.” You state firmly.
“Then you’ve got nothin’ to fear.” Bucky assures, his mouth returning to its serious line underneath his beard.
He regards you carefully and it’s only then that you notice his eyes are the most electrifying blue.
“I best be on my way.”
The sudden declaration should fill you with relief, but as you watch Bucky rise from the chair with an unsteady step, you hear yourself saying “You can stay.”
Something tells you the last time he bathed was also the last time he had a decent meal or rest. He wouldn’t be finding any of those things nearby, especially in his condition.
It’s a miracle he even found you.
The downward tilt of Bucky’s eyebrows is the only indication of his confusion as he looks up from the hat in his hands. “Are you -”
“Just for the night and no funny business.”
Bucky’s eyes study you again and you swear no one has ever looked at you with such intensity.
Then he blinks, focusing on the front door over your shoulder. “I left my guns with my horse. You can keep ‘em with you if it’ll make you feel better.” Meeting your gaze once more, his deep voice rumbles “But I promise you won’t need ‘em.”
How much was an outlaw’s promise worth?
Eyeing him in the same observing manner, you begin to understand what Bucky had been searching for.
Slowly shaking your head, you tell him “It’s alright.”
You had your father’s shotgun should it come to that and you were familiar with the weapon.
“I’ll show you the bathroom.” You declare, striding out of the kitchen. “If you’re gonna stay, you’re gonna be clean.”
Behind you, Bucky responds with a - dare you say, amused “Yes ma’am.”
Your eyes fall shut as you lean back against your front door, sucking in a deep breath of the crisp afternoon air.
There’s an outlaw in my bathroom.
Re-opening your eyes at that insane truth, you realise you’re not alone.
Bucky’s horse watches you curiously from where she stands in front of the porch steps, her gorgeous white coat shining in the setting sunlight.
Descending the steps cautiously, you extend a hand to the mare, letting her sniff you. When she makes a soft nicker and nudges at your hand, you move it to stroke her neck.
Her calm temperament surprises you, as she gladly allows you to lead her over to the barn not far from the house.
You settle her in a stall opposite your own horse, Chester. A gelding you aptly named after his chestnut complexion.
When you relieve her of Bucky’s saddle, you spot two guns amongst his belongings, just like he said you would. You leave them there in the barn.
Back in the kitchen, you clear everything except the quarter filled whiskey bottle from the table.
He might as well finish it off.
Wiping down the wooden tabletop to erase any trace of blood, you lift the bottle to clean under it and get a large whiff of the alcohol, making you pause.
It’s been years since you smelt the once common scent and it has memories flickering behind your eyes as you realise you’ve missed it.
Shaking your head, you put the bottle back down.
An hour passes, Bucky yet to emerge from the bathroom.
You stir dinner distractedly, staring out the window in front of you that overlooks the barn and the great nothingness beyond it as the sky darkens.
“Smells good.”
Christ.
Heart thumping sturdily at the small fright, you let the wooden spoon rest against the side of the pot and turn to face Bucky.
Oh.
It’s no wonder he took so long. Bucky had found good use in a pair of scissors and your father’s razor.
His wild, untamed beard has been reduced to stubble, highlighting a handsome jawline. Bucky’s hair - which is a dark brown and currently damp, curls under his ears instead of brushing against his shoulders.
Definitely trouble.
However, dressed in your father’s old clothes, it’s hard to find him as intimidating.
Your father had been a stocky man, so you knew the clothes wouldn’t be a perfect fit.
The pants are a bit baggy and come up short, ending above the ankles of his bare feet, while the shirt tucked into them is an even looser fit. Bucky has rolled up the long sleeves to keep them out of his way, revealing just how thick and muscular his arms are.
“I can wash your clothes if you like.” You offer, realising you’ve been staring.
“No need, darlin’,” Bucky responds smoothly “Washed them with me and hung ‘em over the porch.”
You hadn’t even heard the front door open or close.
“Kid, that wanderin’ mind a’yours is gonna get you in trouble one day.”
Nodding, you gesture to the table. “Well take a seat, dinner’s ready.”
Dishing out two bowls of stew, you place one in front of him, along with a basket of bread rolls.
“Can’t remember the last time I had a home cooked meal.” Bucky divulges, taking the spoon you offer him.
Sitting in the chair opposite him, you say “There’s plenty more if you want it.”
The two of you eat in silence, Bucky at a much faster pace. You’re only finishing your first serving when he begins his third.
Guess it has been a while since he last ate.
Or maybe this is just his usual appetite.
“Is it just you here?” Bucky asks after polishing off another bread roll, ending the quiet stretch.
In any other circumstance you’d think twice before giving an honest answer, but it’s pointless to lie to him now.
“Yes, it used to be my father and I, but he died two years ago.”
The pain his loss caused wasn’t something you could describe.
Your mother passed away when you were only four, taken by illness. If it weren’t for the photographs your father had, you wouldn’t even be able to conjure up an image of her.
After she died it was just you and him.
When his health began failing him some years ago, you both knew it was only a matter of time. You had just hoped for more.
Adjusting to life without your father had been challenging, but you were fortunate. You’d been left with a home - having no one else to come claim it, and the money that came from loaning out the land to cattle ranchers. It kept you fed, warm, and content.
Bucky lifts his eyes to look at you. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
You nod, your throat tight with emotion.
Pushing up from the table, you take your empty bowl to the sink as Bucky continues eating.
The subject of your father’s passing stopped affecting you heavily some time ago, but it seems the turmoil of today’s events has brought your pain back to the surface.
“I’ll get your bed ready.” You announce, leaving the kitchen.
He’ll stay in the spare room - your father’s old room. It’s bigger than yours, but you could never find the will to claim it as your own. You were happy in your childhood room.
Grabbing sheets from the bedroom’s wardrobe, you get to work.
The room is sparse, containing only the bed with a small table either side of it, a wardrobe, and a chair. On one bedside table sits two photographs of your mother.
You’re slipping a cover over the pillow when Bucky’s figure appears in the doorway.
“Have enough to eat?”
You doubt there’s any leftovers.
“More than, your cookin’s somethin’ else.” He declares.
A smile escapes before you can stop it.
You’ve always loved cooking and it’s been years since you’ve had someone to feed or receive compliments from.
Dropping the pillow, you look over at Bucky and find his gaze fixated on the freshly made bed.
“I’ll leave you be.” You state, moving towards the door.
Still staring at the bed, Bucky steps further into the room and out of your way.
Glancing at him one last time, you utter out a quiet “Goodnight Bucky.”
You’re startled by how quickly his dark blue eyes jump to you.
Then you realise it’s the first time you’ve spoken his name.
“What’s your name, darlin’?”
A pause.
Softly, you tell him your name.
Bucky’s deep voice repeats it, adding “Thank you, for everything.”
His tone is lighter again, like it had been earlier after he laughed, allowing you to hear the emotion in it - sincerity, in this instance.
You’re not sure why it pleases you so much.
⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷ THE NEXT DAY ⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷
When you wake you’re not as well rested as you’d like.
You spent most of the night tossing and turning, all too aware of the outlaw just two doors down.
Forcing your heavy eyelids apart, you sluggishly get out of bed, taking your time getting dressed and fixing your hair.
Emerging from your bedroom, you peer down the hall to your right. The bathroom resides next to your room, the spare room next to it. Both rooms have their doors wide open, unoccupied.
Taking a few steps down the hall until you reach the opening on your left that leads into the sitting room, you walk in and find Bucky to your right, in the kitchen... making breakfast?
“Mornin’,” Bucky greets as you approach. Cracking two eggs into a pan, he answers your unspoken question. “Figured I at least owed ya breakfast.”
You weren’t going to argue with that.
Taking a seat at the table, you ask “How did you sleep?”
Peering at you over his shoulder, Bucky replies “Like a rock.”
“And your wound?”
“Healin’ just fine.”
Bucky’s still wearing the clothes you gave him, but judging by the heat you can already feel in the air, you know his own will be dried before you even finish breakfast.
You walk back towards the house with Bucky on your right and his horse - Alpine, as he’d introduced, on his other side.
He doesn’t mount the mare until you’ve reached the steps that lead up to your front porch. When he does, you’re stunned by the ease and swiftness his large body executes the manoeuvre with.
“Thanks again, darlin’.” Bucky nods, touching the brim of his weathered black hat. “For your cookin’ especially.”
Back in his own clothing with a gun belt secured around his hips, Bucky looks every bit like the outlaw he is.
For the second time since you’ve met, your mouth takes on a mind of its own. “Well, if you ever find yourself this way again maybe I’ll cook you something else.”
The edges of his lips turn up in a smirk at your offer. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
With a light press of his leg into Alpine’s side, the white beauty starts walking forward. You watch as she builds her momentum until she’s galloping, her and her rider becoming nothing more than a dot on the horizon.
⊷⊷⊷⊷ 7 WEEKS LATER ⊷⊷⊷⊷
Truthfully, you never expected to see Bucky Barnes again.
The memory of his visit had been stored away at the back of your mind and some days you wondered if it ever even happened - if it had simply been a daydream you’d gotten too lost in.
However, the knocking you hear on your front door one afternoon weeks later is very much real. As real as the man you spy standing on your porch through the window above your kitchen sink.
As you pull the door open, Bucky smiles in a way that can only be described as mischievous.
“Hi darlin’.”
You’re relieved to find not one speck of blood on him, just dirt.
Bucky’s maintained his shorter hairstyle but his beard has thickened, though not to the wild state it’d been in when you first met.
You realise your memory had failed to capture the precise blue of his eyes, as well as the depth of his voice.
Quirking an eyebrow - but giving a small smile nonetheless, your only response is “Bathroom.”
Chuckling, Bucky tips his hat at you, stepping out of his muddy boots before entering the house. You assume the bag in his hand contains clothes since he doesn’t ask for any as he disappears into the hallway.
Walking out onto the porch, you meet Alpine at the bottom of the steps and stroke her neck in greeting, leading her over to the barn.
Bucky’s left his guns behind once again. You place his saddle and belongings on one of the workbenches before settling Alpine in the same stall she’d occupied last time.
After stopping by Chester’s stall to dote on the horse, you head back to the house and start making dinner.
It’s not too long after when you hear heavy footsteps cross through the sitting room, followed by the front door opening.
Glancing to your left, to the window above the sink that looks out onto the porch, you watch as Bucky hangs his wet clothes over the railing.
He disappears from view and you hear the front door shut before his voice fills the room “How ya been, darlin’?”
Shrugging, you answer with a simple “Good.”
You’re caught off guard when Bucky appears on your right, the smell of the soap he just used invading your senses.
Standing side by side, it’s impossible to ignore his imposing height.
The top of your head barely reaches his broad shoulders and you feel like you have to look up and up to see his face.
You lower your gaze as your heartbeat accelerates, unnerved by Bucky’s sudden closeness. However, it slows as you watch him inhale the contents of the pot simmering on the stove in front of you.
“‘M starvin’.” He quietly groans.
Smiling, you roll your eyes and tell him “It’ll be done soon.” Pointing to a cupboard at the end of the kitchen you add “There’s whiskey in there if you want some.”
When Bucky doesn’t move or say anything in response you look up at him again, startled to find him staring intently at you.
“You a saint or somethin’, darlin’?”
He speaks gruffly, but you hear a trace of humour in his tone.
Scoffing, your gaze drops back down as you take a step towards him, so you can stand in front of the counter. Bucky takes a step backwards to accommodate you.
“What’s saintlike about offering someone whiskey? And to an outlaw no less.”
As the last part slips from your mouth, you tense.
“You’re always talkin’ first and thinkin’ later, kid.”
Bucky merely hums in response, turning to lean his back against the counter as his arms fold. The action pulls his shirt tight across his chest.
Not that you’re paying attention to that sort of thing.
“Isn’t that what saints do? Help lost souls?” He drawls.
“You’re lost?” You retort sarcastically, raising an eyebrow at him.
That earns a chuckle from him as he shakes his head. “Nah, I’m always right where I wanna be.”
Bucky’s midnight blue gaze hasn’t left you once, while yours constantly shifts away, like it does now. “And that’s here instead of somewhere nice?”
“Nice costs money.”
Your eyes dart up to his for no less than a second before flitting away.
This time you’re smart enough to not say the first thing that comes to mind.
Concentrating instead on the corn in your hands, you jump when you feel the rough pad of Bucky’s index finger under your chin, nudging your head up until you meet his gaze.
“Don’t start holdin’ your tongue now, darlin’.” Bucky states in a low timbre, dropping his hand.
Your heart is racing again, but you’re not sure if it’s from fear or... something else.
Swallowing thickly, you manage to voice “I thought you’d have plenty of money.”
“Sometimes I do.”
“Sometimes?”
Really can’t help myself, can I?
The left side of Bucky’s mouth twitches. “It’s not always about the money,” He answers vaguely.
You frown, “Then what’s it about?”
At last, Bucky smirks. “Curious thing, ain’t ya?”
The comment flusters you.
“Why do you wanna know?” Bucky deflects, leaning in until his face is only inches from yours. “Thinkin’ about joinin’ the life, darlin’?”
“No, thank you.” The bite of your words is lost in your breathless tone, the result of his close proximity.
Bucky just huffs out a laugh, his breath tickling your face. Then he’s gone, strolling across the kitchen for the whiskey you offered hours ago - or so it feels, and that’s the end of that.
⊷⊷⊷⊷ THE NEXT DAY ⊷⊷⊷⊷
Waking with a deep inhale, your eyes blink repeatedly against the bright sunlight your curtains do little to block.
You stretch with a satisfied hum, having found sleep much easier than the last time Bucky stayed the night.
It’s well into the morning so you dress quickly, curious to see if Bucky’s still here, maybe even making breakfast again, or if he’s already taken off.
When you venture down the hall into the sitting room, you find the answer to your question lounging in an armchair, one of your favourite books in his big hands.
“Not an early riser, are you, darlin’?” Bucky drawls conversationally, not looking up from the page he’s reading.
You frown, crossing your arms. “It’s morning, isn’t it?”
He’s right though, you’re not one to rise with the sun - never have been. The few times you have are few and far between, the most recent being on his last visit.
Regardless, it’s not that observation that has you feeling defensive.
“Ten o’clock is hardly mornin’, you’ve missed half the day.” There’s nothing in his tone to suggest it, but you know he’s teasing.
It goes straight over your head however, as you’re too focused on what’s in his hands.
“Enjoying the book?” You snark at him.
Bucky smirks.
Oh yeah, he’s definitely winding me up on purpose.
“Tell me, are all your books so -” Bucky breaks off in a chuckle as you pluck the worn book out of his hands and press it to your chest. “So... romantic?”
You grasp the book a little tighter, having half a mind to hit him over the head with it for the gleam in his eyes.
An urge you think he senses.
“I like their humour.” Is your only answer.
Bucky hums lazily, clearly finding your answer lacking as he raises out of the chair.
The visual reminder of his towering height briefly shortens your breath.
Gazing down at you, Bucky lightly brushes against your side as he heads towards the kitchen. “I’ll go warm up breakfast.”
⊷⊷⊷⊷ 5 WEEKS LATER ⊷⊷⊷⊷
You’re not sure what shocks you more when you open the front door. The fact that Bucky is clean, or the fact that he’s holding flowers.
Flowers.
It’s definitely the flowers.
You recognise the handiwork too. Clara, an elderly woman who was as kind as they come, grew all sorts of flowers and sold them from a stall in town.
They’re a little wilted from the long ride here, but still vibrant and pretty.
Resting a shoulder against the doorframe, inadvertently bringing him closer, Bucky’s deep voice teases “What’s the matter, darlin’? No man ever bring you flowers before?”
Dragging your gaze up from the bouquet and narrowing it, you jab “I’m just wondering if they’re stolen.”
Bucky only chuckles at your bite, like you expect him to.
You’re not sure what to make of that realisation - that you expect things from him.
Holding the flowers out to you, he states “They’re paid for, darlin’, I promise.”
There he goes again, making another promise.
Kept his last one, didn’t he?
Your facade doesn’t last long either way, the corners of your mouth turning upwards as you accept the bouquet, your fingers brushing over Bucky’s in the process.
Raising the flowers to your nose - and ignoring the tingling in your fingertips, you breathe in their scent, the stems of lavender standing out the most.
Before you can thank him, Bucky’s bending forward and ducking his head until his dark blue eyes are level with yours. “Was the money technically mine...”
Your mouth drops open as he trails off, implication hanging clear in the air.
Bucky gives a genuine laugh at your reaction, the warm sound almost eliciting one from you as he pushes away from the door.
You watch him saunter down the porch steps to take Alpine to the barn, completely and utterly bewildered by this outlaw.
He looked dangerous with his imposing height, broad shoulders, and wide chest that peeked out from the unbuttoned top of his long sleeved shirts. The same shirts that his muscled arms bulged beneath.
Not to mention his roguish features - the dark hair, thick beard, and piercing blue eyes.
He sounded dangerous, his voice deep and coarse in a way you’d never heard before, every word he spoke seeming to rumble out of him.
He just didn’t act dangerous.
Outlaws weren’t giving, they didn’t tease, or smile, or laugh, and they certainly didn’t let some girl smart mouth them.
However, you weren’t a complete fool.
You knew there was another, more prominent side of him that you were yet to truly witness. You saw glimpses of it sometimes - of the outlaw.
A man who was used to being respected or feared, or both. A man who had the strength and skill to take whatever he wanted, when he wanted, and without asking.
Then Bucky would blink or turn away, and that momentary glimpse you were afforded passed.
It shouldn’t drive you mad, it shouldn’t make you want to see that side of him, yet... it did.
If you thought about it too long - the image of him being rough and commanding like his lifestyle demanded, well...
You jump when Bucky’s hand waves in front of your face.
Looking up from the spot on the porch you’d been staring at but not actually seeing as you lost yourself in your thoughts, you meet Bucky’s blue eyes below his furrowed brow.
“You really get lost in there, don’t ya darlin’?”
Thoughts still scattered, you absentmindedly respond “I don’t mean to.”
Bucky just hums.
Shaking your head to finally clear it, you walk back into the house, listening as Bucky shuts the front door behind him.
Grabbing the old, empty vase that lives on the wooden tea table in your sitting room, you bring it to the kitchen sink and fill it with water, arranging the flowers within it.
You can feel Bucky’s gaze following you as he takes his usual seat at the dining table, but it doesn’t unsettle you.
Returning the vase to its rightful spot, you admire the flowers once more with a soft smile before treading back to the kitchen.
When you pass Bucky you let out a small, confused sound as you come to a sudden stop.
Spinning to face him, you feel the skirt of your pale green prairie dress tighten around your legs, and you discover the reason when you spot Bucky’s hand holding onto the bottom of your dress.
“What are you -” You start, flabbergasted until you actually focus on the section Bucky has grabbed.
“What happened?” He asks, not even having to look up from where he sits to meet your gaze.
The fabric is ripped, splitting the skirt upwards about four inches. There’s a scratch to match it along the back of your right leg, which you assume Bucky must have seen.
You can’t read any emotion on his face, but you sense that he’s not pleased.
Strange.
“I was trying to fix the curtain rod in your - the spare room, but the wooden crate I was using broke and I fell.”
Fell seems like an exaggeration.
There wasn’t much distance between you and the ground, but you had landed awkwardly, the wood catching on your dress and scratching your leg - thankfully not deep enough to draw blood.
Currently, you’re more concerned about how you almost referred to the spare room as Bucky’s.
When did it become his room?
Bucky frowns at you but doesn’t speak, causing you to frown back.
A moment passes before he finally releases your dress and stands. Still silent, Bucky turns and strides towards the hallway.
By the time you catch up he’s already in the spare room, assessing the window.
You’d been replacing the curtains when the curtain rod bracket came off the wall on one side. It just needed to be screwed back in but the bracket was out of your reach.
The screwdriver sits on the windowsill, where you left it while you tossed the broken crate outside with some unfriendly words as your leg throbbed.
Grabbing the tool, Bucky reaches up to screw the bracket back in, the height not even a stretch for him.
Picking the curtain rod off the bed, you sit down in the same spot and bunch the curtains in your lap, keeping them off the floor as you watch Bucky quickly complete the task.
Turning around, he takes the curtain rod from you and hangs it up.
“What else?”
You stare at him for a second before pointing to the wardrobe behind you. “The right door’s a little loose.”
Diligently, he rounds the bed to the wardrobe and opens the right door, tightening the screws in the top hinge.
“I thought it was you the first time I saw it.” Bucky says abruptly, nodding to the bedside table closest to him where two photographs sit.
Both are of your mother.
In one she’s holding you as a child - you’re no more than two years old, on her lap with a smile. In the other she’s by herself and younger, about the age you are now.
“I once told my dad that I wished I could remember what she looked like, he told me to look in the mirror.”
He hadn’t been exaggerating. The resemblance between you and her was as clear as a cloudless day. It was something that had always made you wonder - how hard was it for him to look at you and constantly be reminded of her?
You might not have been old enough to remember it, but the love your father had for your mother shone brightly, never once fading over the years that followed her death.
“He said that was the only thing we had in common,” Grinning, you drop your voice to a faux whisper as you repeat your father’s loving words “She was a horrid cook and complete trouble maker.”
Bucky grins at that, giving a slight shake of his head as he swings the mended wardrobe door shut. “I dunno darlin’, I think you’re plenty of trouble.”
After dinner is eaten and the dishes are cleaned, you always move into the sitting room for a short period while Bucky heads straight to bed.
Tonight however, he’s joined you.
Each sitting in an armchair across from one another, he nurses a glass of whiskey while you stitch the ripped fabric of your dress back together.
You use the light provided by the oil lamp and candles on the tea table between you both, placed around your vase.
As you glance at the flowers, you realise you never actually thanked Bucky for them.
Drawing your gaze higher, you’re not alarmed when your eyes meet his.
He’s always watching you.
“Thank you for the flowers.”
Bucky was right of course, no man has ever given you flowers before.
“My pleasure, darlin’.” His deep voice purrs.
You’re not sure why you suddenly feel so warm.
“And for fixing those things for me.”
It’s not like you don’t do anything for him in return, but you still want him to know you appreciate the help.
“I’ll fix anythin’ you need,” Bucky states a little rougher “Just don’t go hurtin’ yourself again.”
I didn’t do it on purpose, you almost huff out.
Bucky must anticipate the retort or something similar to it, because he stands, finishing the rest of his whiskey in one mouthful.
He takes his glass to the kitchen sink before returning, clearly on his way to bed.
“See you in the morning.” You say as he passes you.
“You mean afternoon?” Bucky calls back, his tone lighter.
This time you do huff, letting out a quiet “Shut up.”
His chuckle echoing down the hall lets you know you were heard.
⊷⊷⊷⊷ 4 WEEKS LATER ⊷⊷⊷⊷
The fourth time you open your front door to Bucky Barnes is... different from the others.
Nothing’s wrong per se, but it’s not right either.
Bucky’s the dirtiest you’ve ever seen him. In fact, you’re struggling to find a visible patch of skin on him.
His large hands rest on the top of the doorframe and his dark blue eyes bore into you the moment the door opens.
“Darlin’.” The word is spoken bluntly and you instantly know he’s not in the mood to talk.
You have a short-lived thought of turning him away.
Instead, you step to the right, silently inviting him inside.
For the first time since you’ve met, Bucky feels dangerous.
Especially when you eye the guns still on his hips.
If this had been the Bucky who knocked on your door while bleeding out, you’re certain you never would have let him stay the night - let alone return.
Bucky trudges off to the bathroom, your eyes trailing after him.
When you hear the bathroom door shut you release a short breath, looking outside to find another irregularity.
Your feet carry you out onto the porch and down the three steps without a thought, drawn to where Alpine patiently waits.
She greets you cheerfully, nuzzling into your hands and covering them with dirt. She’s filthy.
Every other visit her white coat has gleamed, leaving you no doubt that Bucky cared for her deeply. Yet, like her owner, it’s hard to find a clean spot on her.
Alpine makes a noise and seems to nod towards the barn, as if to tell you that she needs food, water, rest, a bath.
The irritation you felt at Bucky’s stiff demeanour is replaced with concern.
You were in town only yesterday and hadn’t heard of any new incidents involving Bucky.
Not that you were keeping an ear out.
“What happened, huh?” You ask Alpine, leading her to the barn.
She simply sighs in response.
You’ve just started drying Alpine when you hear heavy footsteps enter the barn.
Her white coat shines once more, the familiar sight easing you, unlike the man approaching.
Bucky’s body radiates warmth as he comes to stand behind you, the scent of soap filling the air.
Daring to glance at him over your shoulder, you find him clean but worn out, if the dark circles under his eyes are anything to go by.
Wordlessly, you let him take over the task.
You prepare Alpine’s stall, stocking it with fresh food and water while Bucky dries her. He’s quietly murmuring to the horse, but you can’t hear his words over the sound of Alpine chewing hay.
When Bucky’s finished he leads Alpine into the stall, closing and locking the gate behind her.
It’s almost humorous. Alpine and Bucky are spotless but now you’re not. Your dress is soaked and covered in mud.
The walk back to the house is taken in silence.
“I’ll start dinner after I tidy up.” You tell Bucky once you’re inside.
He gives no response.
After your bath you change into a simple white dress, the fabric light and less likely to make you sweat until you switch into your nightgown later on.
Stepping into the kitchen, you find Bucky reclining back in his usual seat, a bottle of whiskey opened on the table in front of him and almost finished.
You decide to make one of your specialties for dinner, hoping it will... well, you’re not really sure what you’re hoping it will do.
As you flit about the kitchen you feel Bucky’s eyes on you, tracking your movements as you keep your back to him more often than not, until there’s nothing left to do but let dinner simmer on the stove.
Turning around, you lean against the countertop and meet Bucky’s stare.
He doesn’t shift his gaze and neither do you.
“What happened?” You ask quietly.
You don’t expect an answer and Bucky’s continued silence tells you there won’t be one.
Probably for the best.
Instead, Bucky lifts the whiskey bottle and swallows another mouthful, emptying it.
Pushing off the counter, you tread over to him.
“You should have some water.” You state, reaching for the bottle.
Before your hand can wrap around it, it’s captured by one of Bucky’s.
He doesn’t look at you as he flips it over, focusing instead on your palm as he runs his thumb over the lines of your smoother skin.
You watch in a dazed state, letting him do as he pleases.
Gradually, Bucky inches your hand towards him, closer and closer until he’s pressing his forehead into your open palm.
The action stuns you, and for a moment you don’t know what to do.
So, you go with what feels right.
Pushing your fingers back and forth timidly, you weave them between the strands of his damp hair.
The droop of Bucky’s shoulders boosts your confidence enough to take a step forward and lift your right hand, joining it with your left.
His head remains bowed, face hidden from you.
Taking another step forward to stand more comfortably, you release a small noise of surprise when Bucky’s hands grasp your hips and tug you even closer, allowing his forehead to rest against your stomach instead.
Your heart stutters in your throat and your hands falter.
With a shaky breath, you resume stroking Bucky’s hair, just as his strong arms wrap around your waist, holding you tight against him.
Being held in such a way makes you feel...
No, don’t you dare think that.
Growing bolder, your fingertips start drawing shapes on the nape of his neck while you play with the ends of his hair. The longer you do this, the more relaxed Bucky becomes.
Eventually however, the sound of dinner bubbling concerningly cuts through the peace.
You look over worriedly, not wanting the meal to ruin.
Bucky seems to realise, his arms tightening around you before dropping completely. Without looking at him, you dart over to the stove and turn it off.
Dinner is eaten in silence.
“‘M going to bed.” Bucky states once he’s finished.
His first sentence since arriving.
“Okay,” You reply softly.
⊷⊷⊷⊷ THE NEXT DAY ⊷⊷⊷⊷
You don’t expect to find Bucky making breakfast.
Walking into the kitchen, you had been prepared to discover that Bucky had left long before you woke. You’re glad he hasn’t.
He doesn’t appear as worn down either, and the brief upwards tug of his mouth when he turns to see you is more than enough to have you smiling back.
While Bucky’s still clearly dealing with whatever, his mood has at least improved.
Predictably, it’s quiet throughout the meal.
You wait at the bottom of the porch steps while Bucky retrieves Alpine from the barn, admiring the flat plains that appear to stretch on forever all around you.
The sound of Alpine’s hooves reaches your ears and you watch as Bucky leads the white beauty to you, stopping her by your side.
“You gonna be okay?”
You’re not sure why you ask, but you do.
Bucky looks at you over his shoulder, his hands on the saddle he was about to mount.
He studies you, his eyes dark under his hat, before doing something that muddles your brain.
In a blink-and-you’d-miss-it moment, Bucky drops his hands and turns from Alpine, covering the distance between you in a short step before pressing his mouth to your forehead, his beard scratching at your skin.
“Just fine, darlin’.” His deep voice rumbles as he pulls away.
Looking at you one more time, Bucky spins back to Alpine and mounts her in one fluid movement. Then they’re gone.
You can still feel the touch of his lips as you watch their figures fade.
⊷⊷⊷⊷ 2 WEEKS LATER ⊷⊷⊷⊷
Town was a good hour’s ride from your home, and it was for that reason you only ever made the journey once a week, every Thursday.
Your main stop was the general store where you bought food and other necessities. The store’s owner - Billy, would talk to you from his spot behind the counter, giving you a weekly rundown of town affairs.
Most of the time it was just mundane gossip you didn’t really care for, but not today.
According to Billy, there was a new gang causing havoc around the plains, trying to make a name for themselves.
“They’ve been robbin’ properties all over, startin’ fires and roughin’ up any fella in their way, the poor lasses -”
Billy never finished that sentence, but his averted gaze told you how it ended.
“Dunno why I’m worrin’ ya with this girl, God himself couldn’t find ya all the way out there.”
The declaration wasn’t that farfetched. Unless someone knew where you lived they needed to be lost to find it.
However, if someone was intentionally on the prowl...
You check over your father’s shotgun the minute you return home.
Some days it’s hard to forget that you’re a woman living on her own, with no help nearby. Tonight that fact looms over you like a dark cloud.
In fact, it keeps you wide awake, sitting at the dining table with the shotgun in reach until the sun rises again.
You’re sluggish the whole day, tired and on edge.
When afternoon rolls around you’ve cleaned the entire house in an attempt to distract yourself and for the most part, it’s worked.
That is until you hear the unmistakable sound of horse hooves in the distance.
Fear strikes your heart in a way you’ve never experienced and you instantly wish to never experience it again.
Racing to the window above the kitchen sink with the shotgun in hand, you almost cry in relief at what you see.
A white horse and her dark rider.
Sucking in deep breaths, you close your eyes and focus on the fast thump of your heartbeat until it returns to a calmer rhythm.
You’re putting the shotgun back in its place underneath your bed when you hear his heavy footsteps on the porch, followed by three loud knocks.
There’s no denying the way you immediately feel... safe.
“Bucky,” You greet a little breathlessly as you open the front door.
“Hi darlin’.” He grins, eyes softening just slightly.
It’s hard to picture the sombre man you invited inside only two weeks ago.
“Back so soon?” You attempt to tease, though you feel it falls flat in your drained state.
You wonder if Bucky can tell.
Ducking his head and pinning you under his stare that’s regained its usual intensity, he responds “You don’t mind, do ya?”
No, never.
Smiling, you answer “Luckily for you, I’m in a gracious mood.”
The tease lands better this time.
Humming, Bucky agrees, “Lucky me.”
⊷⊷⊷⊷ THE NEXT DAY ⊷⊷⊷⊷
After dinner it wasn’t Bucky who retired to bed first, but you.
The moment your head hit the pillow you were out cold.
Maybe it should concern you how easily you let your guard down just because Bucky was close by, but you don’t ruminate on it long enough to let it.
It’s late morning, maybe even afternoon when you eventually wake, the heat in your room making that much obvious.
Bucky doesn’t say a word once you walk out into the sitting room where he waits, reading one of your books again. However, the smirk he occupies as he gets up and goes into the kitchen says it all.
While you eat the breakfast - lunch, Bucky has made, you feel fear start to leach back in.
You don’t want him to leave you.
Unable to voice your plea, you take your time eating, dragging out the inevitable until you’re standing and taking your plate to the sink.
When you don’t hear the familiar sounds of Bucky collecting his things, you peek over your shoulder and find he’s still seated at the dining table.
Your gaze meets his.
Bucky answers the question in your eyes. “I’m supposed to meet my - some friends east of here in a couple of days.” You don’t miss his slip of tongue. “If I wouldn’t be overstayin’ -”
“No.” You interject much too quickly. “No, you wouldn’t be.”
He nods and stands up from the table, gesturing to the front of the house. “Your porch needs fixin’.”
While you kept the inside of the house to a spotless standard, the exterior was starting to show its age. The porch in particular, the boards old and beginning to rot.
“I know, I’ve got new wood to replace it with.”
You had it delivered out a couple of weeks ago. You just hadn’t gotten around to actually starting the task yet.
The sun beams down on you both as you walk side by side to the barn, past the horse stalls where you give Chester’s outstretched neck a fond pat, to the back where the tools and wood are stored.
Bucky hauls a bundle of wooden planks over his shoulder while you carry a crate full of tools behind him.
That’s all he lets you do, refusing your help when you go to walk back with him to collect the rest of the planks.
Standing on the bottom porch step, you watch him go back and forth from the barn until he’s brought out the last plank, creating a large pile.
“I can help.” You insist, feeling guilty about having him do all the work, even though he was the one who offered.
Bucky just shakes his head with a huff.
“Darlin’, go inside and relax.” He instructs, bending down to pick up a hammer from the crate. “Or,” He adds, straightening and strolling over to you, forcing you to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. “Sit out here and give me somethin’ pretty to look at.”
Your stomach drops as heat floods your face.
Managing a weak scoff, you avert your eyes and spin around, quickly retreating into the house.
Bucky’s hearty laugh follows you inside.
Taking Bucky up on his first suggestion, you spend your day in the sitting room, reading.
When late afternoon creeps around and Bucky’s been outside for roughly three hours, you mark the page you’re on and get up to make him a snack.
Using the door at your end of the hallway that leads outside to where you do your laundry, you balance a sandwich and glass of lemonade on a tray as you stroll down the side of the house.
The sight that greets you when you round the corner almost has the tray slipping out of your hands.
Bucky’s shirtless.
His tanned skin glistens with sweat, the muscles in his back and arms prominent as he saws a wooden plank in half.
The longer you stare the more scars you begin to see, most small, others not, marking his body in a pattern unique to him.
You want to ask for the story behind each and every one.
Blinking out of your stupor, you step closer to where Bucky stands in front of the porch steps, cutting through the few remaining planks.
Swallowing thickly, you call out his name.
Bucky’s head lifts, looking over his shoulder at you before the rest of his body turns.
For a second time, you fight to keep the tray steady in your hands.
You’ve only seen peeks of the hair that covers his chest, but now it’s on full display and you can’t help but sweep your gaze down, over his firm stomach, to another patch of hair that leads to -
“Made you something to eat.” You declare, lifting the tray.
It only shakes a little.
Striding over to you, Bucky grins “Thank you, darlin’.”
His large, rough hands brush over yours as he takes the tray and warmth pools in your stomach.
“You’ve done a lot.” You observe, desperate to look at anything except him.
All of the old boards have been ripped up and Bucky’s already laid down new ones on the entire left side of the porch, as well as on the steps, where he now takes a seat.
“Should be done by sundown.”
It’s... nice, you realise. So utterly nice to have a man around to help you - to help look after you.
Though not just any man.
Bucky.
You’ll admit that. To yourself at least.
The sound of Bucky’s glass hitting the tray draws your attention. It shouldn’t surprise you that he’s already finished.
“You keep eating that fast and your stomach will end you before anyone else gets the chance.” You comment with a raised eyebrow as you wander over to him.
Bucky smirks as he stands, handing you the tray. “Darlin’, if your food is what takes me out, I’ll die a happy man.”
Just as the sun starts to dip behind the horizon, your front door opens.
You glance up from where you’re curled into one of the armchairs, a book resting in your lap.
Bucky’s dark blue eyes roam over you for a prolonged moment before he husks out “Come take a look, darlin’.”
He disappears back outside as you stand and make your way over.
Opening the front door wide, you take in the restored porch with a growing smile and step out onto it.
“Wow,” You gush “It looks amazing Bucky, thank you.”
You turn to where he stands at the bottom of the porch steps and meet his gaze briefly before he breaks it, pointing to the old wooden planks piled a few yards away.
“That wood’s no good for your fireplace, so I’ll burn it tonight,” Bucky explains, crouching down to pick up the tools he’d used. “It’ll just be an eyesore otherwise.”
Leaning against the porch rail, next to where his shirt, hat, and gun belt rest, you watch quietly as he goes about returning the tools to their crate.
It hadn’t escaped your notice that Bucky had been wearing his gun belt when he came in yesterday, like he had on his last visit.
You hadn’t thought much about it at the time and you don’t now, too fascinated by him.
There’s a sense of delight in watching him while his attention is directed elsewhere, as it’s so often the other way around.
Only, while you found him intriguing to no end, you couldn’t fathom him sharing the same sentiment about you.
“Shouldn’t look at me like that, darlin’.”
Bucky’s abrupt words startle you as he turns and captures your stare.
It shouldn’t still surprise you how observant he is, even when you think he’s not paying attention.
Especially when you think he’s not paying attention.
How was I looking at him?
Shifting your eyes, you act as if he hadn’t spoken. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, what kind of name is Bucky?”
His chuckle lulls you into reconnecting your gaze.
“It’s a nickname.”
Studying him as he slowly wanders closer, you press “What’s your real name then?”
Bucky comes to a stop in front of you and for once you’re the one that has to look down - if only just.
He runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, pushing it back from his face as he considers you.
“James Buchannan Barnes.”
The confession is gentle, meaningful.
“James,” You repeat softly, giving a small smile. “Now that’s a name.”
Vivid blue eyes - dark and electric, gaze upon you with something you can’t name as you suddenly feel the brush of knuckles against your right cheek.
“Say it again,” He murmurs.
Your breathing grows deep as a shiver cascades down your body, Bucky’s touch so... beguiling.
When your mouth parts to speak, his thumb catches on your bottom lip and it’s a miracle you remain upright, clutching at the railing.
Before you can utter his name a second time, you hear it.
It’s faint, but it still manages to pull your attention.
There’s horses in the distance, kicking up a large dust cloud behind them as they race towards you, the sound of their hooves echoing across the flat landscape.
You can’t tell how many there are yet.
The rough sound of your name pulls your focus back to Bucky, who is already marching up the porch steps. He breezes past you, reaching for his shirt and gun belt.
“Get inside and stay there.” He orders sharply.
Just like that, the side of himself he’d been sharing with you vanishes, replaced by -
“Now.” Bucky grits out, his eyes shifting to you.
That finally sends you scurrying inside, leaving him as he buttons up his shirt.
Darting into the kitchen, you draw the curtain across the window that looks onto the porch.
Bending over the sink, you pinch the bottom of the curtain between your thumb and forefinger, lifting it until you can just peek out.
Redressed, Bucky takes a seat on one of the two porch chairs and settles his black hat on his head, tilting it down until his features are obscured.
Leaning back in the chair, he almost looks like he’s about to fall asleep.
You pick up on a faint noise and soon realise that Bucky’s whistling.
Now, of all times?
Somewhere between a minute and an eternity passes before the horses - four of them, come galloping up to the house with their male riders.
Bucky keeps whistling.
The horses are pulled to a stop beside each other, forming a line in front of the porch. The rider to the far right urges his horse forward a step.
He eyes Bucky before glancing over at his comrades. Reaching behind himself, he slowly pulls out a shotgun and lays it across his lap.
“Oi!”
Bucky’s whistling fades out, the sudden silence perturbing as he straightens in the chair, hat still tilted.
“Can I help you?” Bucky drawls.
His reaction has clearly thrown the group into confusion as they all look to one another before three of them focus on the man who yelled - their leader, you assume.
“You’re not too bright, are ya fella?”
The insult makes you wince.
Bucky laughs.
It’s a sound you should find familiar for all the times you’ve managed to raise one out of him, but there’s nothing about it you recognise - it’s dark and without humour.
Maybe it should scare you, but it doesn’t.
The men stupidly chuckle with him, the one on the far left announcing “We’re here to rob you, fool!”
Laughter rings out louder from them, the group seeming to relax in this odd situation they’ve found themselves in.
“Yeah,” Another one echoes “Everythin’ ya got.”
Obviously not wanting to be left out, the only one yet to speak adds “That includes any women.”
Bucky’s laughter abruptly ceases and the leader notices immediately, unlike his three cackling morons.
“Ya gonna give us trouble, fella?” He asks warily, the others falling silent at the sound of his voice.
There’s a pause before Bucky answers.
“Depends.”
“On what?” A moron sneers, clearly unimpressed.
“On whether or not you leave right now.” Bucky states, voice low and menacing. “‘Cos you make one move towards this house and the last thing any of you will see is the bullet I place between your eyes.”
He directs their attention to the guns on either side of his hips.
The leader hovers his hand above the shotgun on his lap.
Another moron releases a scoff, “They’re not even drawn.”
“No,” Bucky agrees, his tone clearly indicating his dwindling patience. “But I’ve been told I got pretty fast hands.”
Knocking his hat back from his face, Bucky’s hands drop to his guns.
“Bucky Barnes.” A moron gapes, looking like he just wet himself.
The atmosphere completely shifts amongst the group, their leader’s eyes widening as his hand moves away from his shotgun and into the air.
“Mister Barnes, we ain’t mean no disrespect, sir.” He quickly appeases.
Heads bounce up and down as the others hurriedly agree, staring at Bucky with blatant fear.
You can’t stop the smile that pulls at your lips.
“Well boys, I’m not too bright,” He unsheathes one gun and points it in their direction. “So remind me what it was I just told y’all to do.”
Instead of actually doing it, one of the morons stutters out “Uh, well, you told us to leave, sir.”
There’s a hush, Bucky’s frustration palpable, and a part of you believes he’s actually going to shoot them. In fact, you’re about to turn away from the window to avoid the sight.
Before you can however, Bucky speaks again, his voice harsh. “So?”
Finally, they gain an ounce of sense and urge their horses to move.
“Thank you, sir.” The leader gasps gratefully, turning his horse around.
He’s smart enough to know he’s escaped a bullet, but not smart enough to realise his words only irk Bucky further.
It doesn’t matter now. He and his morons are already racing away like the devil himself is behind them.
Maybe he is.
Bucky doesn’t move from the chair, he simply reholsters his gun and stares after the group as they retreat into the darkening horizon.
You’re lighting candles on the sitting room table when the front door opens.
Straightening up, you assess Bucky as he steps inside and removes his hat, revealing a furrowed brow. He looks deep in concentration, like his thoughts are racing at a mile a minute.
“So,” You begin, stealing his attention “That was...”
It’s in that moment, when trying to find a word that encapsulated what just occurred, that you actually process the event.
Watching Bucky handle the situation, making the four men appear stupid and harmless, had made you forget that they weren’t.
You wouldn’t have found those men harmless if it had been just you here to face them.
It should have been just you.
And if it had? How much protection would the shotgun have offered? Would you have been able to -
“Hey,” Bucky’s deep voice cuts through the terror clawing up your throat - the terror that must be reflected on your face. “You’re okay, darlin’.”
Only because of you.
You vaguely hear Bucky striding over.
“If you weren’t here -”
“I was.” Bucky cuts in, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Clasping your face in his rough hands, he tilts your head back until your wide, panicked eyes meet his. “I was here and that’s all that matters, there’s no good in thinkin’ about what-ifs.”
The declaration is spoken gruffly, but the stroke of his thumbs over your cheeks is tender.
“You’re safe,” Bucky continues, his voice growing lighter - gentler, like it sometimes does with you. “You’re safe with me.”
It’s so easy to trust those words.
It’s late at night, the moon high in the sky, when you find yourself standing out on the porch.
You can’t sleep.
Too much transpired today. Too many emotions were brought to the surface, and with them came revelations you’d been trying so hard to ignore.
Ignoring them now seemed impossible.
You’ve never held romantic feelings for anyone. You knew long ago that your future would be a lonely one and you had made your peace with it.
Then he came along.
Rather than falling into your usual place of contentment in the loneliness that ensued each time he left, you found yourself counting the days between his visits, eagerly awaiting his knock on your front door.
Then came the feelings.
At what point did your heart choose to swell and thunder in your chest at the mere sight of him? At what point did you find yourself missing his watchful gaze when it wasn’t on you? At what point did you decide to trust him with your life?
In your relatively short time together, Bucky had somehow managed to carve out a space for himself within you, and you didn’t know how to get him out.
You don’t know if you wanted to get him out.
“Everythin’ alright, darlin’?”
For a second you think you’ve imagined Bucky’s voice during your ruminating, but his presence beside you is real.
“Yeah,” You answer softly. “Was just looking at the stars.”
It was one of the reasons you came out here.
Humming, Bucky leans against the railing to your right, peering up. “There’s no better sight to fall asleep to.”
You remember him once mentioning that most of his nights were spent on the ground, without shelter, in the vast, never-ending desert.
“I’m sure,” You reply. “But I think I’d miss my bed every once in a while.”
Bucky lets out a faint chuckle.
There’s a comfortable silence as you both admire the stars twinkling above, but soon a prickling at the back of your neck has your head turning to find Bucky watching you unabashedly.
“You drive me crazy like this.” He murmurs, almost to himself. “You drive me crazy all the time,” He amends “But especially like this.”
Like what?
You don’t have to find the courage to ask.
“Standin’ in your nightgown, smellin’ like lavender,” Bucky admits freely, repeating “Drives me crazy.”
Your body comes to life at his confession.
Goosebumps erupt over your skin, your heart pounding faster as a warmth settles low in your stomach.
“James...”
“I haven’t stopped thinkin’ about you since we met. Every day, you’re my first and last thought. Always wonderin’ what you’re doin’, if you’re safe, if you’re thinkin’ ‘bout me.” He shifts closer, ducking his head until you’re eye level. “Wonderin’ what your mouth tastes like, how you would feel under my hands, what kind of sounds you’d make for me.”
Your breathing is shallow and heavy as he leans in closer still.
“Gonna let me find out, darlin’?” Bucky whispers against your lips.
Breathless and desperate, it almost sounds like you’re begging when you say, “Yes.”
Desperate to be touched - loved, by him.
A thought you’ll come back to another day.
Bucky’s mouth finds yours gently, his lips softer than you’d imagined as they press against your own. You’re tentative in your inexperience, but it’s not long before you’re kissing Bucky back with an eagerness he happily returns.
His tongue glides along your bottom lip, encouraging your mouth to open, and when it does he consumes you.
Needing to anchor yourself, you wind your arms around Bucky’s neck while his hands clutch at your hips.
When you break apart for a necessary gulp of air, those hands slip behind you to grip your backside, making you gasp as he lifts you up.
Clasping your legs around Bucky’s waist, you cling to him as he carries you back into the house.
His beard scratches against the smooth skin of your own cheek as you nuzzle against him before pressing shy, light kisses to the exposed skin of his neck. The soft sigh Bucky releases enchants you.
Then you’re feeling the floor of your bedroom under your feet as he carefully sets you down.
Bucky lowers to his knees in front of you, his eyes never leaving yours as his hands close around the hem of your white nightgown, his knuckles brushing against your calves.
The only lighting is the candle you left burning on your bedside table and the moon beaming through your thin curtains, but it’s enough to see the desire in his eyes - which is surely mirrored in your own.
You nod at his unspoken question.
In one swift motion Bucky stands, slipping your nightgown up and off.
Your legs press together instinctively and your hands twitch with the urge to cover yourself again as you’re hit with the vulnerability of being completely bared to Bucky.
“No darlin’,” He husks out roughly, grasping your wrists and holding your arms still while his heated gaze peruses your body. “Prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen.”
The fervour Bucky speaks with has you weak.
Pulling you to him, Bucky’s clothes rub against your skin which for some reason makes you tremble even more as his mouth claims yours in a passionate kiss.
Guiding you backwards until your legs hit your bed, Bucky breaks the kiss to lay you down. Still clothed, he crawls over you, his lips seeking out your neck this time.
You gasp when you feel his calloused hands on your lower stomach, before they’re steadily drawn up your body to cup your pebbled breasts.
For the first time, you moan.
Bucky’s head jerks up from your neck, his expression ravenous as he massages your breasts, his thumbs flicking over your nipples as you feel the wetness pooling between your legs.
He lowers to kiss your mouth, this one slow and intimate as his sinful touch continues, his right hand straying away from your chest to trail down and down and...
Gasping against his lips, your body shudders as you feel Bucky’s fingers push through the curls covering your sex, just millimetres from -
You reach for his wrist.
Bucky stops instantly, his hand stilling as he pulls back from your lips to meet your gaze.
There’s no way he doesn’t already know, yet you still find yourself needing to say “I... I’ve never...”
“I know, darlin’,” Bucky soothes. “I’m gonna go nice and slow. Make you feel so good, I promise.”
You release his wrist.
Bucky’s left hand kneads one of your breasts while his right continues its journey down to where no man has ever touched you before.
The whole time, you watch one another.
You inhale sharply when his fingers graze along your folds, feeling the wetness and warmth coming from your core.
It pulls a deep grunt from Bucky, who dips down for a searing kiss.
“Gonna treat you s’good, sweet girl.” He whispers as he pulls away, moving down your body.
Call me that again.
You’re torn from your thoughts when Bucky’s mouth wraps around your left nipple, sucking and nipping. All while his right hand caresses your sex.
He switches his attention between each breast until you’re a wriggling, panting mess. Then, with a smirk, he moves even further down, planting kisses over your stomach as he goes.
Kneeling between your spread legs, Bucky wraps his large hands around your ankles before skimming them up to seize your thighs. He rests them on his broad shoulders, his warm breath fanning across your core.
Confused, you’re frowning down at him when he does the unexpected. Staring at you, Bucky lowers his head and licks along your slit.
Your hips buck up but don’t go far in his hold, your stomach tightening as you let out a strangled noise at the new sensation.
Bucky makes a sound of satisfaction as he glides his tongue over your core, his hands clutching your inner thighs tightly, ensuring they remain open.
This...
You’ve talked about sex in hushed whispers with some women in town but they never, ever mentioned anything like this.
When Bucky’s mouth closes around your sensitive bud, your hands shoot down and grip at his hair as you let out a moan so coarse you hardly recognise your own voice.
“That’s it,” Bucky praises, licking your clit. “Keep makin’ those noises for me, sweet girl.”
One of his fingers dances at your entrance, collecting your wetness before tentatively pushing in. How long Bucky spends working you over, you have no idea, but eventually he’s plunging three of his thick digits in and out of you.
Your head swirls with the flood of sensations. The flick of his tongue, suck of his mouth, burn of his beard, and stroke of his fingers. It’s so much -
“I’ve got you, darlin’, you’re okay, come for me.”
With one final suck on your clit, your body tenses and shatters.
You cry out in pleasure, tugging on the strands of Bucky’s hair as he keeps licking, basking in your undoing.
It’s not until your sounds turn into something small and pitiful at the overstimulation that he stands from the bed, his beard shining with you in the moonlight as he finally undresses.
You eye him hungrily in your dazed state, watching as his shirt flutters to the floor, followed by his trousers. Your stuttered breath fills the otherwise quiet room.
He’s...
Subconsciously, your legs press together again.
Bucky tsk’s, his hands sliding under your knees and pulling them apart. “Sweet girl, what did I tell you?”
Settling between your legs once more, he hovers above you.
You can only hold his burning gaze for a moment before your eyes drift downwards.
His cock is hard, leaking, and big. You don’t think they’re supposed to be that big. Your hand would probably only just be able to fit around it, so how was it supposed to fit in you?
“Like whatcha see, darlin’?” You hear the smirk in his gravelly tone.
Flustered, you mumble out a breathless “It’s big.”
Bucky groans deeply, like he’s in pain, and swoops down to kiss you, dominating your mouth.
“Don’t worry, sweet girl,” He whispers against your lips. “It’ll fit in your little pussy.”
Shivering at his wicked tongue, your eyes dart back to it.
“Can I touch it?”
Bucky grunts, watching you from underneath his lashes. “S’all yours, darlin’.”
Timidly, you reach down between your bodies and circle your hand around the base of his cock.
You were wrong. There’s a small gap where your thumb and middle finger don’t - can’t meet.
It’s hot and heavy in your palm as you give it a curious stroke, up then down. You repeat the action, but this time you trail your thumb along a vein you had felt on the underside of his cock.
Bucky’s forehead drops to yours, his breathing laboured.
An upward flick of your eyes shows you that Bucky’s have closed, his jaw clenched tight.
The sight sends a shiver through you and with a burst of confidence you tighten your grip around his cock and stroke him again, thumbing at his leaking head when you reach the top.
Hissing, one of Bucky’s hands shoots down to grab your wrist.
You look up and see more pupil than iris in his gaze.
Pulling your hand from his cock, Bucky rasps “Won’t last if you keep doin’ that, darlin’.”
The statement thrills you.
Bucky positions your thighs so they’re resting over the top of his own, spreading you out beneath him.
Gripping himself in one hand, Bucky’s eyes study you closely as he nudges at your entrance before slowly pressing in. The initial stretch burns, causing you to chew at your lower lip.
Stopping, Bucky dips down to capture your mouth while his other hand seeks out your clit. He gently rubs the bud, the action both relaxing and distracting as he continues to push in bit by bit until you’ve successfully taken him all.
“You tell me when, darlin’.” Bucky pants above you, unmoving.
A few minutes pass, and when you feel like you’ve adjusted as much as you can, you say “Okay, just...”
“I’ll go slow, sweet girl.” Bucky promises again, reading your mind.
True to his word, Bucky gradually pulls his hard length out of you before pushing it back in at the same pace. Your teeth snag your bottom lip once more as he moves in and out of you, the feeling just shy of painful.
Bucky never looks away from your face, catching every emotion that flickers across it. You’re warm and tight - so tight, around his cock and it has him on the brink of madness.
However, it’s only your pleasure he cares about and when your face remains pinched on his fourth pull out of you, his eyebrows crease in concern.
As he pushes in on his fifth stroke, Bucky starts “Darlin’, do you -”
You moan loud and short, the sound a mixture of bliss and surprise as the pain suddenly gives way to pleasure.
Bucky grunts above you, the look on your face seeming to make him even harder as he puts a little more power behind his next thrust, making you moan again.
“There you go, sweet girl,” He husks. “That feel good, darlin’?”
“Yes.” Your hands wind in his hair, bringing his face down to yours for a desperate kiss as Bucky maintains his slow thrusts.
Something’s clawing at your stomach, wanton and feral.
Your right hand untangles from Bucky’s hair to slide down his muscled back, brushing over the bumps of scars as you go.
Breaking apart, you pant against his lips, “Faster.” You don’t know how you know that’s what you need, but you do. “Harder, please.” You implore in a lustful tone.
You haven’t been oblivious to the wild look in his dark blue eyes, to the barely restrained control he exhibits.
Those words, your tone, they unravel Bucky’s discipline for a moment, and in an almost uncontrollable action his hips slam up into yours as he grits out “Fuck, darlin’.”
The powerful thrust claws a breathy whine of shock out of you.
“Gonna kill me, aren’t ya, sweet girl?” Bucky murmurs thickly, reining his control back slightly as he does what you asked and pushes into you at a faster pace, his thrusts harder.
Your head tips back into the bed beneath you as you moan, the nails of your right hand digging into their hold on Bucky’s back while your left clutches his hair tighter.
“Look at me.” Bucky commands in a tone so low it rumbles through you.
You tilt your head down to meet his heady gaze.
“James,” You whimper, the pressure building within you.
“Fuck.” He thrusts a bit deeper, grinds down a bit harder, making you mewl. “I know, I know darlin’, gonna come for me again, aren’t ya?”
He gives another hard thrust, the force of it pushing you up the bed.
It feels so good.
“Say my name,” Bucky groans, rubbing at your clit. “Say my name when I make you come, sweet girl.”
A pleasure so intense it has your eyes rolling back washes through you, making your entire body tense and relax repeatedly as you moan, whine, and pant for James.
The sight of you coming so undone for him - because of him, sends Bucky hurtling.
Pulling out of your pulsing heat, his right hand squeezes around his painfully hard cock and tugs it roughly, consumed by lust. On the third harsh stroke he spills over your stomach with a wrecked moan of your name.
Your heaving breaths mix together as Bucky’s forehead meets yours.
Inching forward, Bucky presses a short, soft kiss to your lips.
“You okay, darlin’?” He whispers.
A drowsy, satisfied nod is all you can manage.
⊷⊷⊷⊷ THE NEXT DAY ⊷⊷⊷⊷
You’re surrounded by warmth when you blink awake and it takes you a moment to realise the source isn’t the sunlight streaming into your room, but Bucky’s body underneath yours.
If heaven was a feeling, this had to be close.
“Mornin’ darlin’.”
Tilting your head up from where it rests on Bucky’s bare chest, you meet his sparkling gaze and feel your face heat.
In a motion too fast for your freshly awoken brain to comprehend, Bucky cusps your hips and rolls you onto your back, hovering above you.
Nudging your nose with his own, he captures your mouth in a tender kiss.
“How are you feelin’?” He asks, pulling back to look at you.
Memories of last night flicker through your mind as you answer honestly. “I’m a little sore, but good.”
Humming, Bucky runs his left hand up and down your side. “Just good?”
You duck away from his impish stare, making him laugh.
“Still shy after last night?” He questions with a smile, not actually seeking a response.
Instead, he leans down and kisses you again.
This one is more hungry, his tongue swiping along the seam of your mouth, requesting access you happily grant.
You feel the air in the room thicken as Bucky’s left hand continues to roam and knead while both of yours stroke through his lush hair.
Despite the soreness between your legs, you feel the desire starting to pool there.
Breaking apart, you both breathe heavily as Bucky professes “Already need you again, my sweet girl.”
Peppering soft kisses all over your face before trailing down to your neck where he rubs his beard against your skin, Bucky whispers “But I gotta let you recover first if I wanna be able to ruin you all over again, isn’t that right, darlin’?”
You shudder at his words as he places one last kiss below your ear and stands.
Stepping into his trousers, his midnight blue eyes swim with desire as they peruse your naked body.
Licking his lips, Bucky husks “I’ll get breakfast started.”
“When will you go see your friends?” You ask Bucky as he takes your plate and his to the kitchen sink.
“Whatcha mean, darlin’?”
“You said you were waiting to meet with them.” You remind him, recalling the conversation you shared yesterday.
Yesterday?
It felt like a lifetime ago now.
His silence makes you frown at his back. “You’re... not meeting them?” You surmise hesitantly.
Why would he lie about that?
“If you just needed somewhere to stay a while...” All he had to do was ask.
Turning around to lean against the countertop, Bucky’s arms bulge as they cross over his still bare chest.
Despite the current discussion, the sight makes your stomach flip.
Bucky regards you for a moment before confessing “I heard there was a new gang causin’ problems ‘round these parts.”
That’s all he says, leaving you to fill in the blanks.
Your heartbeat quickens at the possible implication of his words.
“So...” You prompt softly, daring to hope.
Pushing off the counter, Bucky approaches you, his gaze holding yours as he rests a hand on the table beside you and bends until your eyes are level.
“So... I needed to make sure my sweet girl was safe.” He admits, lifting his other hand, “That she stayed that way.” Brushing his knuckles over your cheek, he concludes with “I’ve got nowhere else to be, darlin’.”
⊷⊷⊷⊷ 6 DAYS LATER ⊷⊷⊷⊷
For six days you’ve existed in your own little world, you and James.
You knew it wouldn’t last, but that doesn’t stop the disappointment you feel when life comes crashing back in.
Waking up alone for the first time since you surrendered yourself to Bucky, you don’t think too much of it as you slip on your nightgown.
Venturing out into the hallway, you freeze at the sound of conversation.
Alarm tickles at the back of your neck before you force it away.
Bucky would never put you in danger. Of that, you’re certain.
“You sure? The law’s been gettin’ closer than I like.” An unfamiliar male voice states.
“We’ve been plannin’ this for too damn long to back out now.” Is Bucky’s reply.
Sucking in a breath, you know you really shouldn’t be listening to this.
Continuing into the sitting room, you step louder than you normally would, alerting them of your presence.
Two men sit in your kitchen, their hulking figures making the small table between them appear child-sized. Their heads turn and two sets of blue eyes - one light, the other dark - land on you as you loiter awkwardly.
Glancing as long as you dare at the stranger, you note his dark blond hair that brushes against his dirty collar and wild beard which reminds you of Bucky’s the first time he knocked on your door.
You know you’ve seen his wanted posters, but his name eludes you.
“Darlin’,” Bucky crooks a finger at you, urging you over to him. “This is Steve, we’ve been friends since we were kids.”
You could recall the name at the bottom of those posters now.
Steve Rogers.
“Hello,” You greet shyly, offering your name as Bucky’s hands reach for your hips and pull you onto his lap.
Not meaning to interrupt, you look up at Bucky and hope your face says as much. He simply squeezes your hips, silently telling you it’s okay.
“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Steve declares with a secretive smile. “I’m sorry for barging in.”
“It’s okay.”
“Are you?” Bucky grumbles at the same time, making Steve chuckle.
This one laughs too.
“I’ll give you two a moment.” Steve appeases, standing up and settling a worn, brown hat on his head.
You realise he’s only wearing socks and find it oddly thoughtful that he took his boots off before coming in.
“We’ll have to get properly acquainted some other time.” Steve remarks. Judging by the way Bucky’s grip tightens, he’s only saying it to be a menace, “Maybe you can cook me somethin’ too.”
“Fuck off.” Bucky growls, but Steve’s already slipping out the front door with a grin.
Grumbling, Bucky lifts you off his lap and onto the table, fusing his mouth to yours.
Once he’s successfully created empty space where your brain once was, Bucky pulls back and orders “Don’t you dare cook him or any other man anything, ever.”
“James.” You sigh, smiling.
“You won’t like what happens if you do, darlin’.” He promises in a darker tone.
The thrill that shoots up your spine suggests that maybe you would.
Regardless, you playfully huff “If you insist.”
“I do.” Bucky grunts, kissing you again.
When you break apart, the mood turns solemn.
“You have to go?” You ask, already knowing the answer.
“Yeah sweet girl, I gotta go.”
Forcing a smile, you whisper “Okay,” as if you have any say in the matter.
Rubbing his nose against yours, Bucky reassures “I’ll be back darlin’, like always.”
⊷⊷⊷⊷ 3 WEEKS LATER ⊷⊷⊷⊷
Sighing, you eye the dishes you still have to dry. You would’ve finished the mundane task by now if you didn’t happen to move at the pace of a snail while daydreaming.
You had spent most of the day in the barn, completing chores. It wasn’t until the sun had almost set that you wandered back into the house and began making dinner.
Once these dishes were away you planned on taking a long bath.
Stacking the last plate, you pick up one of the candles on the dining table and blow out the rest, blanketing the house in darkness.
Using the light source in your hand, you check over all the windows and lock the front door before trudging down to your bedroom.
Stepping into the pitch black room you can’t help but miss the moon and the light it naturally provides as you place the candle on your bedside table, illuminating the small area.
Clutching the bottom of your pale yellow dress, you lift it up and off, leaving you in nothing but a thin chemise when you hear the unmistakable sound of a match striking.
Gasping, you whirl around with your heart hammering in your chest.
“Don’t stop on my account, darlin’.” Bucky drawls, seated in the chair at the opposite corner of your room.
Waving out the match he just used to light a candle on the dressing table beside him, his dark eyes watch you like a hawk. “Go on.”
A shiver races down your spine.
This isn’t your usual Bucky.
In an almost nervous manner you reach for the straps of your chemise, hesitating for just a second before pushing them off your shoulders.
You hear Bucky’s deep inhale as the fabric pools at your feet.
“Come here.”
Your feet are quick to obey the order.
Candlelight flickers over his face, allowing you to take in his appearance. He looks much the same as when he left, just a little dirty, but you can’t complain since you are too.
As soon as you’re within reach, Bucky pulls you down onto his lap, your legs settling on either side of him as your naked breasts press into his shirt.
His calloused hands grip your backside roughly, drawing another gasp from you.
Grazing your lips with his own, Bucky whispers “I’ve missed you.”
You’re not given a chance to return the sentiment as his mouth captures yours.
The kiss is ravenous. All you can do is hang on to him, your hands clutching at the material over his thick biceps as you let Bucky take everything he wants, everything he needs from you.
Both of you are panting for air when he eventually drags himself away, his right hand gliding up your back to cradle the base of your neck and urge your head backwards.
Running his nose under your jaw, all the way down to your collarbone, Bucky groans in satisfaction against your skin. “Smell s’good.”
It was merely coincidence that you had been using your lavender oil more often since his comment on the porch.
He bites at the place where your neck and shoulder meet - as if in claim, before licking over the spot, making you moan.
Bucky nips and licks along your collarbone, dipping lower until he can tug one of your nipples between his teeth.
You don’t even realise you’ve started rocking against his hard length until both his hands seize your hips, halting your movements.
Raising his head, Bucky coos “That desperate for me, darlin’? Where’d my sweet, shy girl go?”
Why those words make you whine at him you have no idea, but Bucky loves it.
Smirking, he slowly rocks you up and down on his covered length and hums “Maybe my girl’s not so good, huh?”
You moan as he moves you faster, pressing you down to rub harder against his straining cock. Clinging at his shirt, your head drops to his shoulder.
“That’s alright darlin’, ‘cos I plan on doin’ very bad things with you.” Bucky murmurs in your ear, beard scratching at your sensitive skin.
His words, added with the press of his thumb on your clit, undoes you.
Growling, Bucky stands while you’re still whimpering in pleasure and carries you to the bed, manoeuvring your submissive form until you’re on your knees, face down.
He’s never had you like this before.
The sound of Bucky removing his belt has your thighs trembling.
“Can’t wait any longer.” He grunts, shoving his trousers to the floor before caging your hips. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout this perfect pussy every day, dyin’ to feel it wrapped ‘round me again.”
That’s all the warning you get before Bucky pushes in, the intrusion tearing a shout from you, followed by a drawn out moan.
You feel so full. You didn’t realise how much you’d missed this.
How badly you’ve been craving it.
“That’s it.” He purrs, your walls clenching around him. “Fuck.”
Pulling out until just the tip remains, Bucky surges back in.
Keening, you claw at the blanket beneath you.
“You are a good girl, aren’t ya, darlin’?” Bucky thrusts into you hard enough to send your whole body pitching forward. Bending down, he husks in your ear, “‘Cos you’re takin’ everythin’ I give ya.”
The way he’s talking is hurtling you towards the edge again.
You don’t respond - you can’t, but Bucky’s not looking for a reply.
Straightening, he begins pounding into you relentlessly. You swear the bed is going to give out with how it creaks as the frame bangs into the wall, competing with the noises coming from you.
When Bucky’s large, rough hand slides under your body to play with your clit, you almost scream.
Chuckling out a groan, he states “You’re squeezin’ the life outta me, sweet girl.”
Bucky’s fingers are as unforgiving as his cock as they rub tight circles on your bud, bringing you to that point.
“Come.” He growls, leaning over you to wrap his large body around yours as his fingers bully your clit. “Now.”
You’re helpless to his demand.
“James!” You cry, falling limp as your release slams into you.
Moaning deeply, Bucky pulls out of your spasming core and flips you onto your back. Tugging his cock, he spills onto your stomach, cursing your name.
Collapsing forward, Bucky catches himself on his left elbow, hovering above you.
You’re breathless, eyes fluttering as he lowers to kiss your lips.
It starts out tender but soon morphs into something lustful as you feel Bucky hardening against your stomach once more. Your resulting whimper breaks the kiss.
“Keep those eyes open, sweet girl,” He whispers. “I’m not done with you yet.”
⊷⊷⊷⊷ THE NEXT DAY ⊷⊷⊷⊷
You wake wrapped in Bucky’s arms, a smile instantly blooming across your face. Lifting your head from his shoulder, your smile only widens when you notice that his eyes are closed.
Bucky always woke before you, yet here he is, fast asleep.
He looks so peaceful.
For a while you simply watch him, listening to his steady breathing as his chest rises and falls underneath your right palm.
Eventually you can’t resist the urge to brush his brown hair away from his face, which prompts your fingertips to dance across his beard, down the slope of his nose, and over his mouth.
Your forefinger traces along his bottom lip before it’s suddenly snagged between his teeth, making you gasp, then laugh.
Bucky’s eyes blink open and lock onto you as he releases your finger.
“Hi,” You beam.
“Mornin’ darlin’.” The rougher tone of his voice upon waking is a sound you’ll never tire of. “What you doin’ up so early?”
Huffing at his teasing words, you slide over him and sit up, straddling his firm stomach.
“It’s not that early,” You glare playfully.
Cupping your hips, Bucky smirks “I just know how much my girl likes her sleep.”
My girl.
Lowering until your nose bumps his, you respond “I like spending time with you more.”
Bucky gives a weak groan, his hands gliding up to cradle your face and pull you down further, until your mouths connect.
It’s a slow kiss, every stroke of his tongue deliberate as he savours the taste of you.
He doesn’t let you go far when you break for air, his nose prodding yours when he whispers “I have to go.”
Your eyes widen in protest, “You just got back.”
Rolling the two of you over so he’s hovering above you instead, Bucky rolls his temple against yours, his forearms digging into the bed on either side of your head.
“There’s a... job I have to do,” He explains vaguely. “But once it’s done, I’ll be comin’ back here for a good while.”
You mull over his words for a moment before quietly reaffirming “You will?”
“Promise.”
Bucky angles his face lower to press feather-light kisses over your cheeks and down your neck, where he then scrapes his beard, well aware of how much it tickles your sensitive skin.
Only when there’s tears pooling in your eyes and you’re stuttering out between giggles for him to stop does he finally relent, lifting his head.
The grin on his lips is much too boyish to belong to the man who spoke such sordid things to you last night.
You suddenly become vividly aware of everything in that moment.
The dust swirling in the morning sunlight filtering through your curtains, the texture of the sheets against your bare skin, the echo of your heart beat.
It’s the moment you realise -
I love him.
“How ‘bout I make us some breakfast?” Bucky suggests.
It’s right then, with those midnight blue eyes shining down at you, that you almost tell him.
Thankfully, common sense rears its head, snatching the words from your tongue before they can tumble out and ruin everything.
You know he cares for you - possibly adores you in a way, but you’re certain men like Bucky Barnes don’t do love.
So instead you say, “That sounds great.”
You’ll take whatever he’s willing to give you before he leaves, because you know his absence is going to be even more palpable this time around, and you’ll wait as long as you must until he returns to give you more.
⊷⊷⊷⊷ 2 WEEKS LATER ⊷⊷⊷⊷
Securing Chester’s reins around a post outside the general store, you give his neck a loving scratch as he heartily drinks from the nearby water trough.
Moving around him to retrieve some money from the satchel on your saddle, the thumping sound of running feet grabs your attention.
You look over your shoulder to see four young boys racing past, beelining for the centre of town.
“Hurry up or we’ll miss it!” One of the boys shouts back at his lagging friends.
Frowning, you glance around and realise that most people are heading in the same direction.
Closing your satchel with the money still inside, you stride up onto the general store’s porch, intent on asking Billy what all the fuss is about.
A piece of paper nailed to the store’s front door informs you he’s not inside, the messily written ‘be back after’ only fuelling your curiosity.
Humming in thought, you move off the porch and fall in step with the other folks making their way to the town centre.
It’s an underwhelming reveal.
Your eyes roll when you round the corner and find that the gallows have been erected.
A hanging, of course.
What else drew eager onlookers?
Certainly not one to enjoy such a gruesome sight, you pivot and start back the way you came. You’ll just wait for Billy on the store’s porch.
You take four steps before stopping.
The whole town seems to be gathering - if not more. Only someone with a name important enough to know would attract so much attention.
Fear turns your blood cold.
It can’t be him.
You’re thinking foolishly, you know that.
In what world did law enforcement ever actually catch someone like Bucky Barnes?
The notion was comical.
However, your need for reassurance has you spinning back around and treading closer.
You weave your way between the large, still-growing crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of the criminal yet to be led up onto the high platform for hanging.
After a few minutes you’ve only managed to make it halfway through the throng of spectators, the sharp elbows of uncaring men hindering your progress.
Rising up on your toes, you peer around the figures in front of you, focusing on the left corner of the gallows where you know the stairs that lead up to the platform begin.
The next few seconds seem to happen in slow motion.
All the bodies in front of you somehow move at precisely the right time, in the right way, to provide you with a perfect, unhindered line of vision to the brown haired man waiting at the bottom of the steps.
Oh god.
The reveal of his face almost brings you to your knees.
James.
His hands are tied behind his back and two deputies flank him, ready to escort him up.
It’s not until your line of sight is broken that the world around you speeds back up, hurtling you into motion.
Like a woman desperate - because you are, you barge through the remaining crowd, ignoring protests and brushing off shoves, until you’ve reached the very front.
Flitting around the unsuspecting deputy stationed to keep the mob at bay, you bolt for Bucky, sliding to a standstill in front of him, the tips of your boots touching his.
“Darlin’,” Bucky speaks like the wind’s just been knocked out of him, his blue eyes wide.
“James, what are you - they’re -”
You can’t speak. You can’t breathe.
Bucky Barnes didn’t get caught, and he certainly didn’t die.
“You promised.” You gasp out, eyes itching with tears “You -”
“I’m so sorry, baby.” Bucky whispers, his gaze mournful.
His new, precious term of endearment only pains you more.
“Don’t say -”
Regaining their wits, the deputies around you spring into action, one of them seizing your arms from behind and hauling you away.
“Hey!”
“Don’t touch her!” Bucky spits vehemently, rearing forward only to be yanked backwards by the deputies either side of him.
Throwing your right heel back as hard as you can, you catch the deputy in his shin, causing his hold to weaken as he lets out a shout.
Lunging at Bucky, you cling to the front of his shirt.
“Please James,” You beseech, like he has any say in this. “I love you, please.”
You should’ve told him. You should’ve told him that morning.
“Listen to me, baby.” Bucky implores, his deep voice gentle for you.
Just for you.
“I want you to know how much I love you, that you’ve given a meanin’ to my life that I had no right to expect, that no one can ever take from me.”
“James.” You choke out, throat tight with the tears that stream down your face.
He loves me.
The beautiful declaration should fill you with euphoria, not anguish.
“You’re the best damn thing that ever happened to me.” Bucky declares, lips curling in a smile as his dark blue eyes soak you in.
When the deputy grabs you this time, there’s no chance of breaking his painful hold even if you had the strength to try - which you don’t.
Your body is limp, weak, and fractured as you’re dragged away from the man you love. The only man you’ll ever love.
“It’s alright, darlin’,” Bucky insists over his shoulder as he’s pushed up the stairs, his gaze unwavering. “You’ll be okay, I promise.”
You’re thrown into the crowd - which parts from you in disgust, all while watching Bucky ascend to the high platform, feeling anything but okay.
They stand him beside the noose and your legs tremble as you begin walking backwards through the horde of bystanders, unconsciously trying to escape what’s about to transpire.
“Bucky Barnes...” A big, well dressed man addresses him before reading out his sentence.
A hand shoots up to cover your mouth, the reality truly sinking in.
They’re going to kill him.
Only watching you - always watching you, Bucky’s mouth opens.
You can’t hear what he says, but you make out the words.
“Close your eyes.”
The pain suddenly burns, your shoulders shaking with the force of your tears.
Gasping in a deep, shuddering breath, you look at him one last time.
Hasn’t death taken enough from me?
Forcing yourself to honour his final request, you close your eyes.
You’re barely aware of anything other than the affliction raging inside you, so you don’t even know how you hear it over the jeering crowd, but you do.
A low whistle.
It shouldn’t mean anything to you, but something tells you to open your eyes.
Blinking through your tears, you twist your head to the right, where the sound had been loudest, and zero in on a man who towers over most others.
A white bandana covers the lower half of his face, but he’s staring at you, his bright blue eyes visible as he winks.
Steve?
Veering his gaze from you to Bucky, he whistles again, this time a note that’s sharp and piercing.
People scattered within the crowd around you fling back ponchos, revealing guns that they fire up into the sky or towards the gallows, sending the audience running and screaming as all hell breaks loose.
Whitaker is easily liked because he’s compliant. Santos isn’t easily liked because she’s defiant. The most well liked person in the room caring about the most “difficult” person to like as if it’s the easiest thing in the world to do. Everyone looking at him as if he were a saint for withstanding her, when to him she is his savior. Literally the most important platonic relationship on screen right now for me. Don’t look at me.
Also can we talk about THE Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi in this episode???? Saved a kid’s life doing a procedure she had never done in person (perfectly executed while also teaching it when even Robby was obviously too intimidated to try it) and refusing to take Garcia’s shit about “butchering” the cut because she knows she did that!!! And then also not scared to professionally, privately, and firmly call Robby out about his behavior with Samira??? Even while he was acting like a bit of a child about it?? Oh I love her BAD
samira calling robby a dick does not make up for any of the things he said to her especially since he followed it up with “i need you to stop feeling sorry for yourself” SAYS THE BITCH WHOSE WHOLE PERSONALITY IS FEELING SORRY FOR HIMSELF
simon riley has a dog he's had since his twenties. now, as he enters his late thirties, his little pup is no longer a tiny, wriggling thing with too much energy and a lack of bladder control, but a gentle old girl who needs more naps and has a smaller appetite.
her name is maisie. soft and old-fashioned, just like simon loves. simon chose the name when he found her waddling around a dirty alleyway with trash stuck in her fur, searching for scraps. feeling pity for the little thing, he knelt down, held out a hand, and she barrelled to him without hesitation, like she'd been waiting her whole life for him to save her.
or maybe she'd been waiting to save him.
maisie's old now. muzzle's greyed along the edges, she runs a little slower when she's helping simon around the farm, a contrast from when she and simon were an unstoppable pair on duty in the force, taking down enemies swiftly and saving civilians in need. maisie'd trained with him. sniffing bombs, doing rescues, the works. maisie'd saved people from drowning, tugged civilians out from under rubble, found a hidden trapdoor rigged with explosives during a mission.
she'd jumped in the way between simon and a man with a sleek machete once and took a slice to her cheek, but she didn't mind at all. as long as simon was okay.
"stupid girl," he'd said, dabbing the whining pup's cheek with a warm washcloth those years ago. "shouldn't fight all m'battles for me. 's not fair you get hurt in place of me when i can handle it a lot better than you," she'd given him a playful head nudge and licked his cheek.
simon's not a sentimental man, not with most things, but when maisie's brought up in conversation, like when johnny goes, "oi LT, how's that pup of yours doin'? been a while since she's been on base," simon's voice always softens to talk about her. he scratches behind her ears much gentler than he did when she was younger, and if she's having a bad day, he'll carry her upstairs to sleep at the foot of his bed. no one, not even johnny, mocks him for it. why would they mock simon for adoring something so purely?
maisie still always perks up when simon comes home, tail slow and thumping against the floor and ears perking at the sound of the lock clicking, and she walks over to where he's entering and yips happily at her best friend. he always kneels to her, drops what he's holding to pet her cheeks. "there ya are, lil' miss. always know when i'm home. still got y'wits about you, hm?"
maisie was simon's first girl.
you were simon's second. first, a cute girl at a pub, then the girl he was dating, then his girlfriend, fiance, and finally, best of all, his wife.
his beautiful, soft, clever, precious little wife. you're the only person alive who can make him nervous and flustered. he's been trying and failing to get those horrible flips in his stomach to relax whenever he's around you. worse is the raging hard-on he'll get whenever you do the most menial, everyday tasks.
and your voice. the way he'd be in the house finishing up some work before he joins you for the night, when you'd stand by the doorway of the bedroom in a sheer, tiny robe and purr, "come to bed, baby, haven't seen you all day…" oh he's going to ruin you.
you're his everything. his home, safe place. he'd give up everything if it meant you'd never get hurt a day in your life. it kills him every time he has to leave you behind, when you stand on the porch of the pretty farmhouse you share, wrapped in one of his shirts with the sleeves swallowing up your hands and you look up at him with a forlorn expression that breaks his heart.
when he tells you through a letter that he'll be coming home soon, you wait in the kitchen with the windows open in one of the little dresses he bought for you with a feast prepared for him. the hem sways around your thighs as you pace the kitchen barefoot, glancing toward the gravel drive every few seconds.
maisie's paws patter gently across the hardwood as she follows you from counter to window to front door, tail wagging slowly like she knows he's coming. when the sound of tires crunching over gravel finally comes, you freeze. maisie perks up with a quiet huff and makes her way to the door, giving a single excited bark to tell you her best friend has arrived. you wipe your shaky hands on your skirt and rush onto the porch with excitement, just in time to see him climb out of the car.
simon, despite looking tired, is ecstatic to see you. there's a shiny glint in his eyes and a soft smile he reserves for you. he's broader from months in the field, tan and scruffed with deep shadows under his eyes. regardless, they light up when he sees you.
his shoulders drop in relaxation as he rushes toward you without pause, boots thudding on the earth, gaze locked on you. he scoops you into his arms so swiftly that you're lifted off your feet. you wrap your legs around him as he kisses your lips intently, then your cheeks and neck; he can't get enough of you. it's always like this, overwhelming at first because he needs to make sure you're real. he leans back just enough to take a look at you.
"look at you, lovie. been takin' care of yourself while i was gone, haven't you? look s'beautiful."
then, as if it physically hurts him to pull away, he finally releases you and crouches by maisie, who's been waiting for her turn with simon, wagging her tail with a slow, happy rhythm. he kisses her muzzle like always, then leans his forehead against hers, whispering, "missed y' too, old girl."
sometimes simon can't believe he's made you his wife. you, the kindest, most beautiful creature on the planet, is mrs riley. he's yours, every bit of him all belongs to you.
he adores you so much it's almost sickening. he wakes up before you and just stares, fingers brushing your cheek, neck, and soft hair, pupils dilated and heart thudding in his chest just from being near you. he has the physical reactions to you that he had when he first started dating you. in fact, they might've grown stronger.
maisie's his best friend, yes, but you're his whole world. but, there's one more girl.
one left, one small, soft girl nestled in his wife's tummy, tucked safe and sound inside you. you're pregnant with his daughter.
when he found out, he didn't speak right away, you'd been sick for a few days prior to taking the pregnancy test, and he'd thought you'd just had a cold, but the morning sickness and hormonal imbalance and missed period had been enough symptoms to get you to check. besides, he'd... been filling you up a lot more recently. you'd ran out of condoms and birth control kept making you sluggish and queasy, so you'd told him it was fine. told him you'd track your cycle, and that it wouldn't happen, not if he pulled out in time. but simon had been greedy.
simon's always fucking greedy. he can't get enough of you, your taste, scent, his cock nestled in you to the hilt, your soft gasps and breathy moans. simon would nod, swear he'd be careful and that he'd pull out, but when you're wrapped around him, skin to skin and he's so close and so deep, and murmur, "mmh! inside, simon please," with your big, shiny eyes, all his restraint flies out of the window and he'd fill you to the brim with his cum.
so it wasn't really a surprise, but when the test turned positive, and you'd shown him the faint pink line, he'd stared in silence, then took it from your shaking hands with a strange expression, thumb brushing the edge of the little piece of plastic like it was something holy. then he knelt by your tummy, hands cupping you, and asked, "you're sure?"
" 'm... 'm sure si,"
your daughter started showing as a little curve at first. simon noticed quickly. he noticed everything about you, especially now. how you got sleepier during the day, how you started getting cravings, how your hands kept wandering to your belly.
he can't keep his hands off you because he's so obsessed with the way your skin's glowed more from your pregnancy, how your hips and thighs and breasts plumped up, how your belly grew swollen with his child. "morning, little miss," he'd whisper to the bump, "you treat your mum nice, yeah?" you'd hum sleepily in response, threading your fingers through his hair.
maisie's noticed your state too. she's been extremely protective over you, curling up to your side in bed.
the first time the baby kicked, simon was sitting behind you on the couch, one hand on your stomach and he felt it, a tiny push under your skin, simon just blinked and then looked down at your belly with surprise. "she's sayin' hello," he murmured hoarsely, "little bugger knows her old man's home."
when you go into labor months later, it's late into the night. your water breaks after you've been in deep discomfort the last few weeks and aching to get this baby out of you. you knew it was tonight too. you and simon had been sitting awake tensely until now.
he sits up immediately, extremely alert, and scoops you up into his arms. he's terrified, truly, but is being strong for you as he rushes you to the front door while you whine and beg for him to hold you and not let go of your hand no matter what. "i know, wifey, i know, got you. you're safe."
maisie sensed it too. before he can put you in the truck, she scrambles to the door with the two of you. her tail lashes back and forth slowly, gaze locked onto you with her head tilted. she thinks you're in pain and wants to help simon protect you. simon nods to her, wanting to make sure she understands. "easy, girlie. you watch the house. i'll bring your mama back with the new little one, i promise."
at the hospital, simon praises you all throughout your labor, hand petting your hair softly. "y'doin' so good, baby. you've got her. you're almost there. just a bit more, yeah? that's it, that's my girl." even though he believes in you, hearing you in pain is making him genuinely distressed.
when you finally get your daughter out of you later, he stiffens and squeezes into your hand, staring at the wailing little girl being transferred into your arms. simon's eyes flood with tears and he just stares in disbelief at his daughter.
she's got the tiniest fingers, already curled into fists, and this soft little tuft of hair and lungs stronger than anything he's ever heard. simon leans over the two of you, cheek pressed to your head, hand shaking as he touches his baby's back. "look at her, lovie. look at her."
he sniffles softly, wiping his eyes with the heels of his hand and leaning closer to his child, who's slowly quieting down. "hi, sweet girl," he whispers, voice hitching as he strokes her hair. "I'm your dad. I'm your bloody dad."
when they go home, maisie is waiting at the door, tail wagging slow and anxious. she sniffs the bundle in your arms once simon lowers it close to her face. "gentle, mase," you remind her softly, letting the pup nose at your daughter's tiny sock covered feet.
"that's your sister," simon tells her softly. "you're gonna help us look after her, yeah?" you smile at simon and lean into his side, while simon's eyes flit between the three of you - at his old girl, still loyal and sweet, and his wife, the loveliest thing he's ever laid eyes on, and this soft little baby in his arms who already owns his whole heart. he feels so full. warm. safe, and at peace.
maisie gets to see two whole years of that baby grow.
two years of your daughter's tiny hands petting her head and grabbing her ears, of hearing giggles when she wagged her tail, or lazy sunday mornings of you and simon cuddled up with the baby between you, and her at your feet, watching quietly.
maisie's patient. she always has been, but something changed when the baby came. maisie understood her role in your and simon's life was changing. she was meant to stay a little longer in your lives to make sure everything was as it should be. long enough to be the baby's first friend.
"do-gee!" the little one would chirp, toddling after maisie on chubby legs, arms outstretched. maisie would just thump her tail and let the baby crawl all over her. simon has so many photos of them cuddling, in the backseat of the truck with your daughter beside her mid nap, of them playing, sharing toys, and more.
maisie showed the baby the farm grounds too, told the other animals to be gentle with the new tiny human and to keep watch over her like she once did. she didn't forget about spending time with simon, even if she was preoccupied with the baby a lot of the time too. she wanted to make sure her final days were with him.
even though the old girl's hips had stiffened, and the greys on her muzzle had spread to her chest, she still went with him every morning during rounds. across the fields, past the barn, through the fence line where the cows gathered. her gait is slower, more careful, but always determined.
until one morning. the sun was just coming up, you were still asleep, your (now) two year old asleep in your arms. he was up early like usual, wanting to go check the farm like usual on the drizzling morning after having his morning tea. he whistled by the door. "c'mon, mase. let's check the fences."
she didn't come. at first, simon thought maybe she was just slow to rise. but after several minutes with no response to her name and no sight of her anywhere near the porch or in the house, he grew worried. simon jogged out to the side field outside of the cow pasture where wildflowers grew, dewy from the rain.
and there she was, curled in a patch of daisies. her head rested softly on her front paws, eyes closed, like she was just asleep. but not breathing. maisie always let out little puffs of air and quiet snores when she slept.
simon couldn't move for a moment, frozen in place. he'd known that maisie's time was coming soon, but deep down, he hadn't accepted it. he thought she'd be with him forever.
he dropped to his knees in front of her. "...mase."
...
"mase?" simon touched her side, his hand shaking so hard it barely made contact, and there was nothing.
maisie, his girl, his first girl, was gone. in the flowers, the morning light, like she'd chosen that spot on purpose. she didn't want to make it hard for him, or you, or the little one. she went outside to die in peace.
simon pressed his forehead to her and sobbed.
he buried her right under the flowers. you were there, hugging simon quietly after he laid maisie to rest. your daughter didn't really understand, but held your hand and toddled up to the mound of soil curiously. after you told her maisie wasn't going to be around anymore, she said, "do-gee sleeping?"
simon nodded, throat too tight from the need to sob. he can't muster any words right now, because if he opens his mouth, he'll break down. so you take over. you pet your daughter's hair, pointing to the grave quietly. "mhm, right under there, baby. can't wake her, okay? she's gonna nap for a long time." your daughter nods, placing a daisy at the head of the mound and holding your hand as the three of you walk back to the house.
its hard for simon to break habits. he keeps reaching for maisie's ball and her stick with the intention of calling her to play outside, and reaching his hand out to the foot of the bed when he's half asleep so maisie can headbutt his palm. though he has his baby girl and his wife, a piece of him got laid to rest when maisie passed. a piece curled up forever in that field of flowers, resting after a job more than done.maisie held on just long enough, and when she knew they were safe, really safe, she let go. the quietest of goodbyes. simon will love her for the rest of his life.
see more in my cod masterlist!
see more in my main masterlist!
reblog and leave a comment to keep the fic alive if you enjoyed it!
areudirty
janainaart
dededos
andulkaphoto
germansingergirl
vaporwave
